


On The Fringes Of Everything

by Aikori_Ichijouji, AkisMusicBox



Series: Last Quill and Testament: The Official Witcher Scribe series [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Griffin School Gear, M/M, Now featuring Jaskier the Guest Lecturer, Story within a Story, Treasure Hunting, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkisMusicBox/pseuds/AkisMusicBox
Summary: "We're going on a treasure hunt!" Jaskier exclaimed. "You, to reclaim items belonging to your heritage, and me, to record the epic tale and write ballad after ballad about it, in direct opposition to this nonsense not fit to wipe an arse with!"An old map leads Geralt and Jaskier to hunt down five diagrams and a tale of another witcher/human companionship.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Last Quill and Testament: The Official Witcher Scribe series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142315
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	1. To Suit Your Own Preferences

**Author's Note:**

> We now take whatever elements from the books, show, and video games as we please. Take all of the bits that suit our purposes, throw 'em in a blender, bon apetit!

Finding Jaskier at the Golden Sturgeon in Novigrad seemed like a welcome stroke of luck at first. Geralt had a love-hate relationship with this city and the scales were tilted towards the latter after his latest run-in with some Redenian soldiers. The men had abandoned their posts and become more monsters than the creatures he met on the road, but it never failed to put him in questionable territory. Too close to the law. Too close to straying off of the Path that had been set before him. In the old days, that could have put him at risk for a target on his back as well — witchers needed to keep their own in check. But now, with their numbers so few, it would take quite the savagery to put him on the radar of his remaining brothers.

Jaskier's presence typically served as a distraction from thoughts like that. His tales carried an appropriate balance of tension and comedic relief — never did Geralt have to properly fear the outcomes, as the mere tone of the story fully prepared him to speculate. He occasionally indulged his guesses, one or two words that would only cause Jaskier to grow more animated. This time, however, Jaskier's face lit up too brightly from across the tavern. He had a book clutched to his chest with one hand and a goblet in the other. If excitement was a smell it was the faintest smell of sweat and the more abundant of Evreluce on Jaskier as he snaked through the other patrons. "Geralt!" he called, bright voice, bright eyes, bright blue doublet seemingly making everything a bit louder. Making Geralt feel as if he were going to be yanked in a new direction all together.

"You've found me!" he said as he slid onto the bench in front of Geralt. "The stars have aligned, Melitele has smiled upon us, and destiny is knocking on our doors!" He set the book in front of Geralt and Geralt tried not to look at the cover. He'd already seen the title, already was ready to throw it across the room and into the roaring fireplace from his seat. He was poised to bring Jaskier's good mood to a crashing halt.

"Hello to you too," Geralt said. "How am I? Fine. And yourself? Fine."

Jaskier waved a hand. "Pleasantries, pleasantries, yes, but I have made a discovery that cannot wait and the fact that you're here —"

The Erveluce that bobbed in his cup smelled infinitely better than the piss-ale in Geralt's. He made a note to take it from Jaskier and throw the ale in his face if he didn't stop talking. "Everything about that book can wait until it and every copy of it is destroyed," he said, a tinge of fair warning entering his voice.

Jaskier gaped. "Geralt! I would never —" he stabbed a finger at the words _Monstrum, or Description of the Witcher_ "enjoy this cruel and hateful telling of your kind. I consider myself one of the greatest advocates for witchers in my art! No, it has nothing to do with the contents, but what I found shoved in a secret pocket in the back!" He set his goblet down and reached into his doublet, pulling out a torn and stained parchment. He offered it to Geralt.

The notes were half-smeared, the map sparse, but the symbol in the corner of it read clear as day to Geralt. "It's a map to witcher armor diagrams." He cocked his head. "'Us'? 'Our'? What does this have to do with you?"

"We're going on a treasure hunt!" Jaskier exclaimed. "You, to reclaim items belonging to your heritage, and me, to record the epic tale and write ballad after ballad about it, in direct opposition to this nonsense not fit to wipe an arse with!" He stabbed the book with his finger again.

* * *

The first piece they searched for—yes, _they_ , because trying to convince or outmaneuver Jaskier would have proved more effort than it was worth—was, predictably, amongst the rubble of old elven ruins. If you walked far enough in any direction, you would trip and tumble headfirst into ruins. Villages, towns, and cities were built on top of them in defiant denial of their existence, especially in Velen. Geralt had seen enough of them to appreciate their ethereal beauty but abhor their propensity for featuring portals as part of their architecture.

Jaskier, of course, would wax poetic about anything if given less than half a chance. Thus, his enthusiasm upon arriving at the ruins vibrated so crisply through the air, Geralt hoped it wouldn’t attract the curiosity of any nearby monsters. Grabbing the bard by the back of his doublet, he reined him in before his excitement got them into any more trouble.

“Didn’t you study at Oxenfurt?”

“So kind of you to remember,” Jaskier sighed in exasperation as he adjusted his clothing. “Yes, brilliant parties we’d have in the ruins, at least, until the swots would show up and demand we play ‘I’ve Never’ in Elder Speech only. Anyway, this experience is wholly different. I—” He stopped himself and waved a hand. “Nevermind. You wouldn’t understand.”

Geralt didn’t and didn’t feel the need to. Especially if the mere prospect of explaining it rendered even Jaskier silent. He enjoyed the blessed quiet for as long as it would last and shoved a lit torch into his companion’s hand before stalking wordlessly into the crumbling ornate entryway that had been cut into a hillside and flanked by pillars that held nothing but the sky aloft. It was more for Jaskier’s sake than his, but it also left both of his hands free in the inevitable event that he had to fend off whatever horrors decided to make the ruins their home.

Two wraiths and half a dozen nekkers later, they came across a leather satchel that was partially buried. The stitching had long since disintegrated and the clasp holding the flap closed was more rust than cohesive substance. Geralt crouched and carefully cleared the dirt and rubble away before pulling the satchel free and gingerly opening it. He noticed Jaskier moving closer behind him to peer over his shoulder at what he removed from inside.

It was a scrap of leather tied round several sheets of parchment to protect them. The papers themselves were mostly whole, only the edges flaking off here and there. Jaskier made a confused sound when Geralt held up a hand and wiggled his fingers back and forth before he understood the unspoken request to remove his glove. He indulged the twitch in his lips at the sound of Jaskier’s disgusted mutterings when he accidentally touched the sticky residue of monster blood.

He used his bare hand to leaf through the pages. The first few were detailed drawings of a full set of armor and neatly written notes of materials needed and the recommended techniques for crafting each piece. Upon reaching the last page, Geralt found a note written in the same handwriting as the rest. Jaskier must have stopped his griping long enough to notice this as well as the bright light from the torch loomed closer in his periphery.

“Hold it up, Geralt, I can barely read it,” he demanded, leaning further over Geralt’s shoulder.

The two of them squinted against the flickering torch light and read.

> _“Ten wolves_
> 
> _Four wargs_
> 
> _Two drowners (we happened across them when we strayed too near to the swamp)_
> 
> _I know not why this baron thought it prudent to hire a scribe to accompany a witcher, but I suppose paranoia can stretch as far as purse strings will allow. Thus, it is my lot to plod behind the witcher Cenek and take account of his actions until he fulfills the terms of his contract. Today is the first day on the trail of the creature the baron wants eliminated. Cenek left with little details regarding it but has made quick work of gathering information from various villagers. He is now of the opinion that the monster he seeks is a leshen, possibly an old one._
> 
> _I am unfamiliar with the varieties of monsters that roam the Continent but this sounds particularly gruesome. It worries me that I would have to witness it’s defeat as it’s not in the witcher’s interests to keep me alive should the monster decide to come after me. I voiced my concern to Cenek when we made camp tonight, though not in the pursuit of pity or an offering of protection. Being of few words as he is, he suggested I determine if the coin I was promised would be enough for my family to afford adequate burial rites._
> 
> _Perhaps I shall wait in safety until the deed is done._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Scribe”_

"What would you say the lifespan on a leshen is?" Jaskier asked, a quiver in his voice. "And how much more deadly than that pack of nekkers?"

"Long," Geralt said. "Considerably. But the human bones in this cave have been here longer than this bag has been rotting away in here." He studied Jaskier's sober expression in the flickering light. Studying the documents before him, Jaskier's lips slightly parted, as if resisting the temptation to verbalize the way his thoughts spiraled.

"The note's ink seems to have faded more than the diagrams," he said. "It was written before the rest of it." Then, he turned to Geralt. "Regardless, it's a long way back and we've got what we've come for."

Eyeing a faint patch of light near a far wall, Geralt said, "Perhaps not." He re-packed the parchments, slipped the glove back on, and threw the satchel on his shoulder, gesturing for Jaskier to follow him. Must and decay smothered the air as their boots splashed in the not-just-water pools on the hard-packed ground. Roots pierced and weaved through the cracked stone walls, thick as his wrists. Stalactites loomed overhead for the most part, but the light was pouring through a hole barely big enough to fit a barrel through. Big enough for monsters, though. And big enough for two treasure hunters.

"Pick your poison," Geralt said, pointing upward.

Jaskier held the torch aloft, studying the web- and slime-covered wall. Then, he looked up into the sweet promise of sunlight and whined. "In this instance, quicker is better." He jammed the torch into a gap in the stone while Geralt rinsed his gloved hands in the pools. Blood and guts were considerably slicker than whatever the mixture was, that was for certain. Then, he gestured for Jaskier to start climbing.

With an exhaled, "Bollocks," he did, slowly, surely, testing each new foothold carefully. Each grab of a root, measured. It wasn't an extremely high climb, but one that wasn't too be trifled with. When he was finally a body length away, Geralt began his climb as well. 

But it would have all been too simple if Jaskier were to merely reach the top unscathed. A root under Geralt's foot loosened under his weight. The stone under Jaskier's right foot gave way. "Fuck!" Jaskier yelped as his weight hit his hands. The root in his right one came free of the wall, like pulling an unbound rope.

"Fuck," Geralt echoed, quicking finding a narrow foothold before letting go of the wall with one hand and grabbing the sole of Jaskier's boot. "Find something to grab!" Geralt's limbs were already burning at the effort of supporting both of their weights on a few small points of contact, where the smallest shift in balance would spell Geralt's broken body, taking hours to knit itself back together under taunting sunlight.

All the while, the silence of Jaskier's lifeless body would torture him.

The weight lightened somewhat when Jaskier found a handhold. He lifted his foot, scraping uselessly against the wall, the sound accompanying the rapid pounding of his heart, a duet meant to strike fear in Geralt's heart. There were no other footholds in Jaskier's reach. And his arms weren't long enough to close the gap to the hole.

"Just hold on tight," Geralt grunted, shimmying to the left of the path and finding a single stone, just as broad as his foot. It'd be enough. 

"Geralt!" Jaskier choked, and with that, Geralt could smell blood. Jaskier's, from his fingertips prying at any hope from the stone.

"Hold on!" Geralt said, in a tone that he recalled Yennefer using when she desperately wished the words she said were a spell. 

He jumped and his fingertips curled into the grass. His side pinned Jaskier to the wall with a grunt from the bard. Geralt pulled himself up through the hole and then, belly on the ground, found the back of Jaskier's doublet. 

Despite him being pale and plastered in grime, Jaskier's eyes were bluer than the sky. Geralt yanked him through the hole. 

Both of them laid on their backs, panting on the grass when Jaskier chuckled. "Five location left, eh?" And, impossibly quicker than Geralt would have expected, sat up and started brushing himself off. "Cenek, did you know him? That sign on the map doesn't look like your medallion, though."

Still winded himself, Geralt sat up. "No. He's from the School of the Griffin, out of Kovir." He wiped whatever mix of hair and debris clinged to his forehead. "Take a breath, Jaskier. You nearly got yourself killed by a wall."

Jaskier’s nose wrinkled as he examined his web-covered hand, stained in blood. “Perhaps a bath is in order. And some salve.”

* * *

Walls were the least of their worries when the next point on the map led them to a long-abandoned textile mill along the Pontar. The wooden floor had surrendered to time and termites and looked ready to cave under little more than a slightly menacing glare. It had already done so in places, leaving behind gaping holes of blackness that showed little of what lay beneath. Geralt tested every beam thrice before allowing Jaskier to follow behind him as they made their way down to the cellar.

“Why the cellar?” Jaskier huffed behind him, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on putting one foot before the other along the narrow beam.

“Monsters like musty, cold places,” he explained as he gave the top rung of the wooden ladder he found a firm stomp, only to watch it shatter under his boot. They’d have to find another route downward.

“Right. And if a witcher was here, he’d be where the monsters are,” Jaskier concluded, coming to a stop just behind him. “Or were, I suppose.”

“Are,” Geralt corrected when he heard the distant, rasping wail of wraiths coming from below them. The bodies must have been trapped where even necrophages couldn’t get to them.

A groan. “Lovely.”

Geralt snorted as he tied a rope to one of the thicker supporting columns nearby. “You’re the one who wanted to go treasure hunting.”

The dust had only just settled after Geralt made quick work of the wraiths in the cellar when Jaskier spotted two sheets of parchment trapped amongst rotting bolts of what appeared to be heavily stained linen. Geralt lifted the bolts so Jaskier could pull them out without tearing the paper more than they already were. By the light of the lantern Jaskier picked up on their way to the mill—after noting the inherent danger of holding an open flame; mostly to his hair—they sat together on the mound of mouldering cloth to inspect their findings.

“It’s that scribe again,” Jaskier exclaimed, pointing to the careful hand lettering on both the beautiful silver sword diagram and the note behind it. “I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.”

> _“It seems even a witcher has need of a scribe from time to time. Cenek requested my help in completing the text on some crafting diagrams and has taken to negotiating for extra pay on contracts by offering the services of ‘an impartial third party’ for verification of completion. Clearly his dealings with the baron has taught him the value of accountability and he’s found it to be a rather lucrative pursuit._
> 
> _As such, he keeps me in his employ when his contracts allow it. After viewing his nearly illegible scrawl, I am convinced it is less of an allowance and more of a dire need. It suits me fine as it granted me the opportunity to leave my blessedly small town as Cenek rarely stays in any place for long and the nature of his request requires me to verify details in person. It is certainly the most unique request I have ever received in my twenty-nine years._
> 
> _I wonder if one could add Official Witcher Scribe to their professional credentials._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Official Witcher Scribe”_

“So witchers _have_ actually traveled with companions,” Jaskier shot Geralt a sidelong glance laden with accusation.

“It’s… not unheard of,” Geralt offered as he rolled up the papers and tucked them carefully inside his armor.

“Right,” Jaskier stretched the word long and tight with a roll of his eyes. “One of these days, you’re going to come clean about how much of this witcher stuff is actually true and how much you’ve revised to suit your own preferences.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Geralt was already walking back towards where the rope hung down from the floor above. “Let’s go.”


	2. What I Endure

The ride to the third location was filled with the nickering of the horses and Jaskier playing with lyrics. Jaskier had spent a decent sized amount of his coin on a skinny bay named Honor when they first set off in Novigrad. Geralt had nearly overruled the selection on the basis of the name alone, but she was a patient, gentle mare. Names were more changeable than temperaments. As, Geralt hoped, songs were. 

"A lone traveler swathed in wool and lament," "Stories that only feed the birds," and "Hearing a heart break 'cross a cell" were all ideas thrown into the ether that Geralt gave increasingly derisive grunts in the direction of.

"Changing the perception of witchers from bloodthirsty killers to weeping, heartbroken maids isn't a service," he said as sunset striped the horizon.

Jaskier clicked his tongue. "I'm trying to get it closer to reality, Geralt, and finding the truth without a partner is like navigating a cave without a torch. But finally I have a collaborator in the endeavor. Merrick's notes are giving me invaluable insight and I'm confident the rest of his notes will help me get there."

"Hmm." The things that came out of Jaskier pretty little mouth sometimes would be cause for any man to deck him. And his attitude toward danger didn't help the probability.

"Yes, Geralt, I'm saying a likely dead scribe is a better lens on witchers than a living witcher himself." He patted Honor's neck. "It's just nice to feel as if someone understands what I endure."

Geralt exhaled slowly and resisted the urge to spur Roach to go faster. Roach would easily outpace Honor in a matter of moments. He didn't have to listen to Jaskier's half-formed and ill-advised thoughts. But, as they neared the village, Roach's ears twitched. She slowed half a step. Geralt took a deep breath.

"Now, I'm not diminishing what you endure yourself," Jaskier clarified. "Hence, my mission! But, I think it's at least fair to say —"

"Quiet."

"No," Jaskier said. "No, no, let me finish —"

A shriek tore through his rebuttal. The smell of rotting flesh was growing prominent, enough that Jaskier noticed as well, curling his lips. "Ghouls?" he asked. 

Geralt nodded and dismounted. "I'd wager the whole village has become their feasting grounds." He pulled a few potions from his saddlebag. "There is a reason the Path is not a road. It's not meant for many people. The Path leads us to create maps that lead to places like this." One, then two vivid colored liquids burned down his throat. "Stay with the horses," he rasped. "Even if it goes quiet, do not enter until I've returned. And if a day has passed without my return, leave and burn the map."

"Geralt," Jaskier said, quickly silenced by Geralt drawing his silver sword.

He pointed it at Jaskier. "Don't be a fool. Take care of Roach." And with that, he turned and entered the village.

The scent of rotting flesh was everywhere, suffocating him from all sides as he ventured further in. It came from the houses around him and the fields beyond. The deaths must have been fairly recent for it to still smell so strongly, Geralt reasoned. It was a deafening dinner bell for the ghouls and all other manner of necrophages.

He heard two approaching him from the left and spun, sword raised to parry, in their direction. The first, he managed to slice the head clean off it’s body as it leapt towards him. The second, he caught along the jaw; it attacked so soon after its brethren that all he could do was jab his sword in it’s direction and hope it made contact. A second, full swing rent it in half and it went down with a ghastly screech.

Three more were coming from two separate directions and he waited, listening to determine which would appear before the others. Geralt met the gnashing teeth of the first to fly at his face with the flat of his blade, pushing it away to swipe at it, and the other that appeared beside it, taking them both out with one strike. It was the third that got the drop on him, quite literally. Leaping from the roof of a house behind him, it bore Geralt to the ground under its weight and he only just managed to turn in time to avoid a faceful of bloody grass and dirt.

The struggle to get the ghoul off him was interrupted by a piercing shriek that was too close for comfort and his mind instantly made the connection. An entire village massacred. Several ghouls attacking him in a more clever fashion than their single-mindedness would afford them. And, now, the scream that rattled through his head, threatening to break his concentration as he wrestled with a beast while trying to get his feet under him. He bit out a curse.

Alghoul.

A solid punch connected with the jaw of the ghoul, sending it staggering backwards and Geralt got up while spearing it through the skull in one fluid motion. While efficient, it still wasted time he didn’t have. The alghoul had already closed in and sent him flying into the side of a shed with a well placed claw. It was a good thing he ingested the potions he had prior to this or the impact would have felt a lot worse. It was a doubly good thing that he hadn’t released his grip on his sword.

He pretended to be unconscious and lured the alghoul closer. Once it was in range, he sprang forward and cut the monster’s front legs out from underneath it. As it writhed on the ground, trying and failing to stand, he jammed a boot against its neck and his sword into its spine. 

Pulling the sword free upon ensuring the beast was dead, Geralt’s thoughts turned to a bard and two horses who waited just outside the village. If the alghoul had orchestrated the demise of an entire village, he wouldn’t think it a stretch that it would have tried to acquire more victims than just himself. He rushed off in their direction and came to a stop when he saw Jaskier standing between the horses and looking warily toward the village.

The bard’s shoulder slumped, heavy with relief when he noticed Geralt walking towards him. “Was it bad?” he asked. “I could hear the sounds from here.”

“Could be worse,” Geralt grunted before his face pulled into a taut wince at the sharp stinging in his side when he attempted to mount Roach.

“You’re hurt.” Jaskier was at his side in the time it took him to twist round and spot the slash in his armor. The alghoul’s attack must have found the weak spot he’d been meaning to have repaired.

“It’s fine.”

“You at least need to clean it,” Jaskier argued. “Is the village safe for now?”

Geralt nodded absently, poking at the gash in his side. They had at least a few hours before the scent of death attracted more monsters.

“Looks like the tavern is close enough.” Jaskier nodded in the direction of the larger building near the town’s entrance. “If there’s no fresh water, they’ll at least have some spirit.”

Geralt tried to protest that they didn’t need to settle into one of the tavern’s larger rooms, but his words fell on deaf ears as Jaskier told him he could debate with the dead bodies outside if he wanted a pointless argument so badly. Jaskier helped him out of his armor and handed him a dish rag and a bottle of rye. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was a prime candidate for infection and it stung.

Jaskier busied himself with rummaging through the sparsely filled bookshelf in the room. When Geralt was nearly finished applying a salve from his pack and converting the rag into a makeshift bandage, he heard the other man gasp. Jaskier had parchment in his excited hands when he sat next to where Geralt perched himself on the edge of the bed.

“I found these in between some books,” he explained, shoving the paper in his face.

Familiar handwriting in dark ink was spread across the pages. The first, a diagram for a sturdy pair of gloves. The second, as usual, was another missive from the scribe with which they were steadily becoming acquainted.

> _“A lord in a nearby estate has posted a notice requesting the aid of a witcher for his son. Apparently the young man has experienced a change in humor. Where he was once boisterous and loud, he is now quiet and contemplative to the point of sadness. The father believes him to be either cursed or possessed. Cenek thinks it is more likely to be the former, citing the potential for the son to be on the receiving end of bitter revenge from a jilted lover or marked by a beast._
> 
> _He sets off tomorrow, alone, to negotiate terms. Contracts have been sparse as of late and I refused to accept any further pay. Like witchers, scribes can find work nearly anywhere. I shall do just that until Cenek returns._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Official Witcher Scribe (on hiatus)”_

“Wonder how old the son was,” Jaskier said.

“Curses affect all ages with little discrimination,” Geralt replied, taking the diagram and adding it to the collection in the satchel.

“But a third option becomes more likely with age,” Jaskier countered, taking the note and stuffing it in his own notebook. “He could just be sad.”

“So sad that a father mistakes it for a curse?”

Still looking in his notes, he said, “Or wishes it were. Would be a much simpler solution. Fathers tend to like simplicity, in my experience.”

“Were you a youth consumed by your moods?” It was hard to fathom Jaskier being anything other than a softer, somewhat smaller version of his ostentatious self.

Jaskier peeked up at him, a wry smile clawing its way out. “I suppose so. Sometimes it’s hard to recall. It quickly became apparent that such things were undesirable in a young viscount. Feeling the thing, expressing it, and then subsequently being punished for it grew wearisome. Only _certain_ types of acting out are acceptable for a noble, you know.” Jaskier leaned back on the bed.

“I can imagine.” Geralt could, he tried at least, based on every soul he’d had to free, unable to rest because of poor fathering. Vesemir was as much a father to him as he’d ever have, and as long as Geralt forgot about what it took to get to that point, he could be grateful to him.

“It wasn’t all bad, though,” Jaskier said to the ceiling. “I remember vividly when he told me about Blaviken. One of my moods threatened to consume me, my father could tell, and he told me a tale he’d heard from another noble just that very day. He liked stories, too, but simple ones. Good, bad, right, wrong, doom and those who meet it.”

“And monsters?” Geralt asked, fatigue setting into his bones. 

“Yes, monster stories too. Those were my favorite. But I wasn’t a fool. My father never had all of the facts, the context one needed to know the full story.” And then, Jaskier swallowed, a real smile escaping this time. “Did I tell you he wrote me after he heard _Toss A Coin_ and found out it was mine? Lots of feelings, he had, strong ones. But mostly he wanted to know about you. He wanted every gory detail about the monster he loved to try and frighten me with.”

As uncomfortable as the territory Jaskier was treading, Geralt had to ask. “And?”

“ _‘Yes, I wrote it. Yes, I went to the edge of the world and was beaten by Filavandrel himself. No, Geralt doesn’t use a silver dagger to pick godling bones out of his teeth. He spoils his horse with apples at every fresh market and enjoys a glass of Zurbarrán red with appropriate amounts of reverence and revelry.’”_ He sat up off the bed and patted Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll find us something potable to drink.”

* * *

"You know, Merrick's letter has me thinking," Jaskier began after he'd poured them both a generous tankard of ale from the tavern's stores.

"Always a cause for worry, that." Geralt hid his smirk behind his drink.

Jaskier frowned and sighed. "Perhaps my plan wouldn't be so well received after all," he muttered.

"What plan?" Geralt was not gifted with magical foresight but he knew a bad idea when he heard one brewing.

"To divide and conquer."

Geralt nearly dropped his ale. "Absolutely not."

"Geralt, did you even look at the map?" Jaskier asked, reaching for his lute case to produce said item. "The next two diagrams are fairly close together, but look where the last piece is marked."

Geralt leaned over to see where Jaskier's finger jabbed at the map. He was right, two of the remaining three diagrams were two days' ride from where they were and half a day's ride apart. And the third mark was in an area filled with more perils of the human sort, but they weren't strange lands. Particularly not to Jaskier.

"Oxenfurt."

"Exactly," Jaskier chirped. "If the map is to scale, then it's probably somewhere on University grounds. I think I can probably manage that one on my own."

"Jas—"

"But," he interrupted. "If it proves to be something I cannot handle, I'll wait until you arrive. Is that enough to soothe your ruffled feathers of concern?"

Geralt grunted. "Barely. Trouble finds you regardless of the venue."

"Come on, I swear I can manage at least this," Jaskier begged. "You get to do your witcher-ing thing and I get to do my scholar-ing thing and we meet in the middle, yeah?"

"No."

Jaskier's face crumpled and he looked genuinely hurt. He knew from the moment he saw the eager bounce in Jaskier's step in Novigrad how much this meant to him. Geralt would have felt guilty were it not for the words he chose to follow up with.

"We meet in Oxenfurt."

The last light of evening may have been waning outside, casting deep shadows on the dilapidated houses and maimed corpses. But, in their tavern room, dawn was breaking on Jaskier's face.

* * *

Gods, the roads were quiet.

Geralt usually found solace in the trails that wound between trees stretching for sunlight. They were speckled with carved gods that reminded travelers of the beliefs that guided these lands and their inhabitants. Deer and beasts appeared to him in equal measure. They should have provided him a steady rhythm, an accompaniment to his travels that made his Path clear.

But it only made him agitated.

The next location was a small lake near the coast. A shelf of rock near the edge of the stony beach hid the next set of documents, naturally near a nest of water hags. The beach was covered in dismembered body parts by the time he unearthed a small, oaken box with ornate silver filigree along the side and velvet lining inside. He didn’t bother reading the diagram for the trousers before he dug into the second document.

> _“Six marriages, three contested inheritances, and one narcissistic mage later, Cenek returned. The cause was a jilted lover, as anticipated, and was cause for me to purchase the first round of drinks. But after the third round (Cenek purchased the next two) he confessed that the matter was not as simple as a scornful maid. That even when the truth was laid bare to the lord, it proved more a battle than removing the curse itself._
> 
> _In the end, the lord gave Cenek a sack full of the promised coin, and choice of anything in his halls that he desired. Likely, the lord meant his second or third daughter (which the mage had more than his fair share of stories to relay to me previously), but the witcher chose a box, built for it’s lightweight and watertight nature. A retainer, he called it. He didn’t know where the next contract was coming from, but he did know that my presence smoothed over the situation. That at least he’d have something to borrow against if the contracts became as complicated as they did sparsely funded._
> 
> _I bought the fourth and fifth rounds. I am neither a fool, nor a boor._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Official Witcher Scribe (on retainer)”_

* * *

The penultimate location, the diagram for boots, was in a haunted house. Half of the haunting was indeed from a spectre, but the other half was a katakan that took him by surprise. Nearly embarrassing, really, to get jumped and shredded by a katakan, but the only one to judge him was Roach, and she kept herself occupied on a particularly verdant bush a safe distance from the property. Once Geralt patched over his wounds, he read the next note.

> _“Cenek has been more interested in staying at brothels lately. I’m neither a prude nor a pig, so I declined to comment nor protest. He was never loose with his coin before, nor is now, so I have no ground to stand on that front either. A few of the ladies ended up grumbling to me about him being a disappointment, to which I lament conveying what I found most disappointing in them._
> 
> _Then, a messenger found him, insisting that Cenek leave with him to Kaer Seren immediately. I’d never seen Cenek grow so still, so cold at that. The messenger grabbed him and I grabbed for the messenger in return, but Cenek waved a hand strangely in the air and the messenger relented. Apologized. Left a sealed letter before he scurried away._
> 
> _I didn’t have time to ask what he did, nor what the letter said before it combusted in his hand. I insisted that Kaer Seren was no different than the rest of the Continent, and likely in need of a penmanship teacher at the very least if he was to be made example of._
> 
> _Cenek’s smile was painful. For both of us. He shoved a goblet in front of me and told me to drink. He still had contracts open in this region, so stop my fussing._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Official Witcher Scribe (on tenterhooks)”_


	3. The Niggling Thought

Geralt was in Oxenfurt by the end of the week, thanks to a couple days of pushing Roach further than he would outside of a dire situation that required it. He was convinced Jaskier had found some way to get himself into a mess of one kind or another. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The alternative thought was one he’d rather like to avoid at all costs as it involved things that witchers were purported to neither possess nor appreciate.

As for Roach, well, she kept her thoughts mostly to herself, but Geralt didn’t miss the occasional, exasperated toss of her head.

Their agreement was to meet at an inn in the evening, but Geralt had arrived in the morning. He’d also overheard a group of scholars milling about chatting animatedly about a guest lecturer by the name of Julian who was in town. While Geralt was knowledgeable of Jaskier’s educational background, he had mostly witnessed the man in the capacity of an entertainer. His academic side came into play only to the extent of the way he would rapidly spit out a handful of synonyms for a song lyric that gave him trouble.

At first, Geralt thought to leave Jaskier to his own devices. Then, the niggling thought that this was akin to finding a rare variant of monster took hold and refused to release him. So, he found himself approaching the academy weaponless. However, regardless of the assurances Jaskier made before they went their separate ways, he was keeping his armor on.

Geralt heard his voice before he saw him across the Academy’s main courtyard, surrounded by young and old alike who paid him more respect and accolades than the disgruntled tavern patrons who could only throw bread and jeers. He wondered why Jaskier would give it up for a life of constant travel. He barely even looked like the Jaskier he knew when dressed in academic regalia with all its billows and gathers.

As if sensing he was there, Jaskier paused in the middle of whatever he was saying and looked in his direction. Geralt heard him hastily excuse himself and weave his way between the crowd, all but running before he stopped in front of the witcher.

“He was here,” Jaskier hissed in a shouted whisper.

Before Geralt could ask who, Jaskier grabbed him by the arm and ushered him through the large oak doors of a nearby building. He led them to the far end of an empty hallway before stopping in front of a framed painting on the wall. Confused, Geralt looked to Jaskier for an explanation.

“I spent nearly two days searching everywhere I could think,” he began. “The libraries, the dormitories, I even took to looking around the shrubs outside in case I missed something. One of the professors spotted me and asked if I would do a few lectures which I couldn’t refuse because of appearances and all that.” Geralt raised an eyebrow, urging him to get to the point. “Anyhow, it led me here.”

“And what exactly is here?” He still didn’t understand.

He pointed to the painting. “This!”

The painting on the wall was of an older, bespectacled man with slate grey hair who held an ornate quill in his hand. Geralt followed Jaskier’s finger to where it pointed at the nameplate just below.

“Gareth Llewelyn Merrick, Professor,” Geralt read aloud. “And you’re certain this is him?”

“Completely,” Jaskier was emphatic. “Mostly because I happened to find this when I slipped my hands behind the painting when no one was watching.”

He pulled several folded sheets out from somewhere in the folds of his robes and handed them to Geralt.

“I don’t know what other pieces of the story you found in your travels but, fair warning,” Jaskier said in a voice that was all of a sudden subdued and sorrowful, “it doesn’t end well.”

Geralt opened the parchment and read.

> _“Cenek and I parted company some fourteen years past. At the time of our last meeting, he handed me a pouch of coin and the rest of his diagrams with instructions scrawled in as careful a hand as he could manage. His instructions were to complete my work, but to hide the pieces in whatever way I saw fit. He never cared to explain why._
> 
> _In fact, those last instructions were the most words I had heard him utter in months. The letters from Kaer Seren still found him on occasion and he incinerated each one with increasingly less enthusiasm. The dark shadows that formed around his eyes deepened with each passing week and, in the fleeting moments he was not in his armor, I noticed bruises and lacerations that seemed not to heal. He was cold and withdrawn._
> 
> _But all of that paled in comparison to the odd shapes that formed in his shadow when fire or candlelight would cast it along the floor. They were bizarre… and terrifying. I tried to ask him about it, but he would only fix me with a flat glare and say nothing. I was at a loss._
> 
> _He told me he decided to return to Kaer Seren for the winter, a curious statement as the crisp temperatures of fall had only just started to prevail over the land. He also made it clear that I was not to join him. I begrudgingly obeyed in the hopes that he would explain upon his return. How foolish I was to believe that would ever be an eventuality._
> 
> _I kept the diagrams as my only memoir for over a decade before I finally decided to travel the land and fulfill Cenek’s last request. If you have been lucky enough to find this, know that you are the sole owner of the last written accounts of a man I was honored to call a companion and friend._
> 
> _G. Merrick, Professor of Humanities at Oxenfurt”_

Geralt swore. "It wasn't a jilted lover at all. It was a Hym."

“Hym? Hym… hym…” Jaskier snapped his fingers. “The guilt monster! Ghost, spirit…. Thing that feeds on regrets. But why would it attach itself to Cenek?”

“The Path leads witchers into treacherous situations,” Geralt said, trying to focus on the crease between Jaskier’s eyes and not the memories bubbling inside of him. “Any one of them could have ended poorly. Or, the attempt to remove the Hym ended in tragedy. Killing the thing can end up killing the host. Tricking it may end in the ploy going too far.”

“And Cenek didn’t deign to mention that to Merrick?” Jaskier scowled. “He just left Merrick to wonder for all of that time?”

“It was too great of a risk,” Geralt said. “And if Cenek survived, he would have returned to Merrick.”

Jaskier snorted and crossed his arms. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Annoyed, Geralt pulled out the notes he had recovered and gave them to Jaskier. “Cenek was finding reasons to stay with Merrick as long as he could before he was too far gone.” 

Jaskier’s eyes darted over the papers, reading swiftly as he could. “Cenek could have sought help sooner.” He looked up to Geralt, confused. “Why? Even if it was too late, why _lie_ and leave Merrick without answers?”

“Because Hym are _dangerous_.” He couldn’t keep looking at Jaskier, and he couldn’t look at the painting of Merrick. There were so few things in his hallway he could even pretend to study. “If I’m correct and Cenek tried to trick the Hym out and an innocent died because of it, Cenek would not have wanted to attempt the trick and Merrick seems the exact type to try and execute one. That leaves only his brothers at Kaer Seren to try and kill the thing, with the very strong possibility that Cenek would die in the process. The risk of passing the Hym on would have been too high.”

“So, if he was resigned to die, he still had to slink off into the mountains to do it?” Jaskier said, shoving a finger in Geralt’s chest. “Merrick wanted to go with him!”

Geralt could glare at the finger, let his temper rise just enough to retort. “Go with him to do what? Watch Cenek mulilate himself as he slowly went insane?” Geralt looked at Jaskier again and snarled. “Cutting his fingers off? Popping his ear drums, scalding his feet with hot coals, sticking wire up his prick? Do you know what it takes to kill a witcher, Jaskier? More than your pretty little head can imagine, so do not blame Cenek for trying to preserve a modicum of his dignity and spare Merrick the burden of knowing.”

Jaskier shook his head. “We have to tell Merrick.”

“Tell him?”

“Merrick might still be alive!” He dug the finger deeper into Geralt’s chest. “He retired before I came to the university, but I spoke to a professor who knew him and knew that he retired to a small cottage on the edge of the city.”

“It will change nothing,” Geralt shot back.

“It will mean _everything!”_ Jaskier yelled. Geralt had never seen him so enraged, his face and neck so red, his body shaking.

“M-Master Pankratz?” a shaky voice called from the end of the hall. A slip of a student, male or female, it was hard to discern, in simple robes in the same colors as Jaskier’s called. “Is everything alright?”

Jaskier pulled his hand back and took a deep breath. He turned. “Apologies, Robin. My associate and I sometimes let our passions get the best of us.” He patted Geralt on the shoulder. “I will be going to Vilgo Hall shortly. Please let Professor Tanneba know.”

Robin nodded and scurried away. Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulder. “Please, come to my lecture. We can discuss this more afterward, but it would do no good to get kicked out just yet.”

Geralt sighed. “Fine.”

A life lived constantly on the fringes of everything kept Geralt standing in the far back corner of the lecture hall. Not that he needed, or wanted, to move any closer. He could see and hear perfectly well from where he was in the shadow, avoiding as much attention as possible.

It was no surprise to find that watching Jaskier give a lecture was identical to watching him sing. While different in substance, they were both performances perfectly tailored to their respective audiences. Jaskier could enthrall with words regardless of whether he spoke them from a podium or crooned them over the top of a lute. He was an entertainer through and through.

When Jaskier’s eyes met his mid-sentence and the trace of a smile tickled at his lips, Geralt decided he could hear the rest of the lecture just fine while looking out of the nearby window.

“So, how was it, then?” He asked afterwards with a face all at once too innocent and hungry for validation.

“Long.”

In truth, Jaskier had talked for nearly two hours. Geralt didn’t see the need to stroke the bard’s ego, not with the amount of admiring whispers he caught from his audience. There was more than enough empirical evidence in his favor. Still, when he saw Jaskier’s face fall, something sharp and searing shot through his chest, making him reconsider.

“Was that bit about ‘finding the man in the monster and vice versa’ for my benefit?” he asked and, just like that, the sunny disposition returned.

“I’ll meet you at the inn so we can continue our discussion?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “What’s left to discuss?”

“Your misgivings towards having a difficult conversation with an elderly scribe regarding an old friend,” Jaskier sighed, impatient. “Or was my lecture so intriguing you forgot all about that?”

“Nothing I say will stop you from doing as you please,” Geralt huffed.

A wide grin stretched across Jaskier’s face. “Let it never be said that you don’t know me well, Geralt. I’ll meet you at the main gate but, first, I’ve got to get out of these gods-damned awful robes.”

Geralt cleared his throat of the laugh that wanted to burst from his mouth.


	4. To Be A Concern

Merrick’s home was just outside the city and hidden behind squat trees that had spread their branches out rather than up. A mossy stone path led them to the wood and iron front door. Geralt stood back while Jaskier knocked twice.

The man who answered looked far too young to be Merrick. Jaskier introduced himself to the man and explained his affiliation with Oxenfurt as well as his wish to speak with Merrick. The man frowned and shook his head.

“Apologies, but Master Merrick passed away not five summers ago,” he explained. “I was his assistant and apprentice during his latter years and he left his home in my care.” Geralt noticed the tension in the look the man gave him over Jaskier’s shoulder. “Were you acquainted with him?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, most likely to spout another long explanation when Geralt stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “We found the diagrams he completed for a witcher of the Griffin school.”

The tension eased and he nodded once. “Please, come in.”

The man, who introduced himself as Owen, led them to a study towards the back of the house. Dusty bookcases lined the walls, a tidy desk sat in front of a window, and chairs were strewn throughout the room in various places of convenience. Owen invited them to sit where they pleased before he left the room muttering something to himself about preparing tea. Jaskier plopped into the first chair he saw with a disappointed sigh.

“Fat lot of good this idea was,” he grumbled.

Geralt just hummed in reply, walking the length of the room while his eyes scanned the shelves.

“Maybe we should just go,” Jaskier suggested, running a hand over his face. “There’s no point in explaining what happened to Cenek when the person who would benefit most from that information isn’t even alive to hear it.”

Geralt only hummed again, stopping in front of one set of shelves that held his interest near the desk. A book sat at eye-level with a thoroughly worn spine from being opened multiple times. The title was written along it in fading gold leaf with only parts of the letters still visible but he could still make out what it once was; a copy of _Behind the Great Veil_.

“I hope you’re savoring this moment, Geralt, because I’m admitting you were right. We shouldn’t have come. Perhaps Merrick was better off not knowing,” Jaskier lamented.

“Doesn’t matter now.” Geralt pulled the book from the shelf, letting it fall open in his hands and revealing the pages that saw the most frequent visits.

“Ah, there’s the grim realism I’ve come to know and lo—what are you doing?”

Geralt walked over to Jaskier and held the open book out to him. Slowly taking it, Jaskier looked carefully at the pages on display. He seemed to drink in the words in long gulps, barely pausing for a breath between. A sharp gasp left his lips and he looked up at Geralt with wide eyes.

“Merrick figured it out on his own.”

The sense of relief that overcame Jaskier was so palpable Geralt felt a knot in his own shoulders release. Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Merrick was a clever one. To be honest, I’m impressed he was able to safely hide away the diagrams in the locations he did without it being his end.” Jaskier nodded absently as he flipped through some of the pages, but Geralt didn’t remove his hand until he heard Owen’s approaching footsteps.

Owen entered with a tray carrying more than tea. A bottle of wine with a torn, heavily-worn label accompanied it along with the appropriate drinkware. Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I know, Master Witcher, it’s barely noon, but as the tea started to steep I recalled just how Merrick would have scolded me for serving one of your kind any less than short beer.” He crossed to the desk and set the tray down. “I have an apple blended black tea, or…” He picked up the bottle to squint at the remaining print. 

“Fiorino,” Geralt said. “And a fairly old vintage at that. Seems a bit extravagant for an impromptu meeting.”

Owen nodded. “However, Merrick saved this bottle on the occasion that he ever got to share it with, and I quote ‘someone whose senses would appreciate it fully’. I assume he meant one individual in particular, however I’d be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to honor the spirit of his wishes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not one to dishonor the dead.”

When Owen poured the first glass, he passed it to Geralt, who passed it to Jaskier, who took it gratefully. Geralt pulled up a chair next to Jaskier with his own glass.

“I apologize for my hesitancy earlier,” Owen said. “I feared Jaskier a professor from the university looking to pry into the manuscript I’ve been finishing on behalf of Merrick. And Geralt as a disgruntled member of the subject community.”

“Merrick was writing a book about witchers?” Jaskier asked.

Owen leaned against the desk and nodded. “Attempting to, at least until I was hired. Partial carer, partial writer and editor. Merrick was a very accomplished writer and storyteller, but only so far in the arena of truth. And he wished to write a fictional tale.”

“About what?” Geralt asked. He was hoping to savor the drink before him, but Owen’s answer now had too much power over that prospect.

“About a witcher from the school of the Griffin.” He took a sip. “Based off of research about the adventures recorded from a variety of witchers. The emotional truths, the themes, all based from reality, but fictional events and fictional people.” He stared into his goblet. “Anything else would have been ‘too close to the heart’, or so he told me one evening when he was deep in his cups.”

That Geralt understood. He drank. He’d only had one cup from this region before, snuck from a kitchen in Gildorf when, under the pretense of a contract, he’d been brought to a dinner merely to be an amusing conversation piece. He’d needed the coin, though, so he had indulged in a bit of mischief to sweeten the deal for himself. But this wine was better. He could almost picture the forest the wood for the barrel originated. Vanilla and raspberry and cloves danced on his tongue. He breathed a contented sigh.

Both Jasker and Owen watched him. “‘S’good,” he said, abashed.

Jaskier smirked and drank as if he’d won something.

Owen smiled. “Merrick thought the world of the time he spent on the road with Cenek, brief as it may have been relatively speaking. He even confessed to finding employment at the university specifically to utilize their library. I believe, all in the effort to better understand that time.”

“Our intention today was to ensure just that,” Geralt explained. “To make sure he was at peace.”

“Peace?” Owen tilted his head. “That, I do not know if I can say for certain. But he had answers and that gave him solace. And I hope that the manuscript being completed helps Merrick’s and Cenek’s souls to rest, somehow.”

Jaskier leaned in. “Something else Merrick said when he was drunk?”

Geralt busied himself with his goblet. 

Owen nodded. “Many. But, for brevity and discretion, it mainly had to deal with regrets and to entice me to avoid them if possible.”

“Very well,” Jaskier rubbed his knee with a hand. “I do say you’ve been more helpful to us then we’ve been to you.”

“Nonsense.” Owen sat his glass down and re-corked the wine. “It is good to know that one of Cenek’s brothers unearthed the diagrams. I also feel re-invigorated to finish the book, hopefully by the next time you two pass through Oxenfurt? I’d happily give you both copies, free of charge.”

Geralt and Jaskier stood. “Very kind,” Geralt said. 

Owen wrapped the bottle in a cloth and handed it to Geralt. “Please. I need a clear head to get back at it, and it is a crime to let a bottle of it go unfinished.”

Geralt took it. “Appreciate your generosity. Farewell.”

Their journey back into town was meandering. Jaskier wound them through back alleys and narrow pathways with a confidence that prevented Geralt from asking where they were headed. They approached what seemed like the dead-end of an ivy covered wall looming up ahead until Jaskier pulled the vines aside to reveal a crack in the wall wide enough to pass through. Beyond the wall lay an overgrown garden that was more weeds than flowerbeds and a stone fountain that probably hadn’t seen water in decades.

“I found this place back when I studied here,” Jaskier answered Geralt’s unspoken question. “The owner of the house attached to this garden abandoned it years ago, so I’d come here often when I needed a quiet place to work.”

Freeing the bottle of wine from the protective fabric Owen wrapped around it, Jaskier removed the cork and took a sip before passing the bottle to Geralt. They were drinking expensive wine in the middle of the day, alone, in an empty garden, but this was seeming less like a moment of fanciful freewheeling by the second. Geralt waited for the inevitable heavier mood to set in.

“Would you do the same thing?” Jaskier asked in a voice that was small and barely there. “Would you leave and never tell me what happened?”

And there it was. The affirmative waiting on Geralt’s tongue was bitter and painful when he swallowed it. This was not a situation that would be aided by a reflexive response. Not after what they had found; what they had learned.

“Were you to ask me the same a month ago, I’d have said yes,” he admitted between pulls from the bottle. “I thought I’d be doing you a kindness.”

“And now?”

“I realize it might not be that simple,” Geralt sighed. “But, Jaskier, you have to understand that the Path is solitary. A witcher lives alone. Works alone. Dies alone.”

“And you call me melodramatic,” Jaskier scoffed. “For all of your experiences with how human regrets can have supernatural consequences, I’m surprised that the concept of closure is so foreign to you.”

Geralt lowered the bottle from where it was raised to his lips. “I… never expected to matter to someone enough for that to be a concern.”

“Life never goes according to expectation, Geralt.”

“I keep being reminded of that, it seems.” He handed the bottle back to Jaskier.

“Perhaps, one day, you’ll actually listen.” Jaskier tipped the bottle for a generous mouthful of wine. “And remember.”

“You give me too much credit.”

Jaskier threw back his head and laughed. It was harsh, raucous, with only traces of mirth and it echoed off the brick walls surrounding them. Geralt watched him look up at the sky for a moment, squinting against the afternoon sun. He then looked down at his hands before finally meeting Geralt’s gaze.

“I never thought I’d admit you were right twice in one day,” he said with a glittering in his eyes that Geralt hoped was just a trick of the light. “But, I guess, there’s a first time for everything.”

Geralt hummed and took the bottle back from Jaskier. “I suppose it's now up to us to find a blacksmith who will do the diagrams justice, lest our efforts be in vain.”

“ _Us,_ ” Jaskier laughed again. “ _Our._ ”

Unlike the one before, this laugh was filled with sunshine and the promise of adventures yet to be had.


End file.
